The Malfoy Line
by Farrah and the Indigo Snitch
Summary: Casualties of war leave one last domino, poised to fall, and end the Malfoy line forever. Bolt upright in his sumptuous bed, he cries out in rage. His wand is in his hands. His long blonde hair is crackling with frantic magic. "You wife was a rare treat… but your son… He was f***ing delicious," that is what the monster had said, the feral half-man half beast. Lucius had roared.
1. The Fragile Peace of Retribution

**A/N: Welcome to my first Harry Potter Fic.**

 **Let me invoke an anti-litigation charm. I own nothing. All characters you recognise belong to JK Rowling and her associated affiliates. I make no money from this story, just friends (hopefully).**

 **I will be updating sporadically, it can't be helped. That being said, the whole story is outlined and I have quite a few already written chapters up my sleeve.**

 **Feedback is welcome and encouraged. Enough of my blathering! Onto the show!**

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Bolt upright in his sumptuous bed, he cries out in rage.

His wand is in his hands. His long blonde hair is crackling with frantic magic.

But his foe—his foes—are long dead, as is his family. He fervently wishes there were some to main, to kill, to rend. Anything but face his loss.

The nights where he wakes before killing Greyback are the worst. The impotence mingled with grief is an especially excruciating combination.

"You wife was a rare treat… but your son… He was fucking delicious," that is what the monster had said, the feral half-man half beast. Lucius had roared at him but he had only laughed, "What are you going to do about it Lucy Poo?"

It was the point where he had awoken this evening, shouting his fury through the empty room, disturbing no-one but himself; the elves had long ago adopted the practice of warding his wing before turning in.

There was no point in attempting sleep this night. Pacing or drinking, that is what he did on nights such as this.

When he was able to relive the feeling of blowing Greyback against the wall with a rare burst of elemental magic he was better.

When he could remember the smell of the werewolf's flesh burning when wall behind him turned from cool stone to burning hot lava—again courtesy of Malfoy wandless magic—he was even better.

The slick feel of blood when he dug a magically strengthened hand into his neck and viciously ripped out his throat, the way Greyback gulped like a fish, trying to say something but instead of words just brought forth vilifying splashes of red... It was an insufficient counterpoint to his heartache, but some balance.

If he could re-experience the rest of his rampage, he even had a chance of sleeping again. The widening of Yaxley's eyes when he realised that the lamb had regrown teeth, the gurgle of the vile man's last breath when he'd spelled his lungs full of mortar. The heady sensation of his magic overpowering Dolohov's and then breaking every bone in the wizard's body. The symphony of sights, sounds and smells when he landed a vicious entailing expelling on that bitch Bellatrix.

Yes, when he could relive the demise of Bellatrix Lestrange at his hands he could achieve some rest.

Her incompetence had cost him everything that mattered, his legacy, his family. He'd been ordered by that half-blood despot to crucio his beloved wife and even more beloved son, as punishment for allowing the _Golden Trio_ to escape the Manor. If he pleased his master with his enthusiasm the Dark Lord said that he would let them live.

So he had. Inflicting pain on them had been like inflicting the curse upon himself. But if there was a chance, the tiniest chance, he had been compelled to try.

Bellatrix had tortured her own husband into insanity and then beyond the veil, absolving her of further repercussions—though anyone with a modicum of sense could see the man had been no great loss to the callous witch.

Snakeface had eyed Draco and Narcissa in that emotionless manner of his. When a smile had lifted a corner of his mouth Lucius had known it had all been for naught.

He had tossed Narcissa and Draco to Greyback, like juicey bones to a hungry dog. Lucius had railed, trying to get to his son and wife but he'd been restrained by Yaxley and eventually stupefied by Dolohov.

Before he'd even had time to fully assimilate his loss, the last battle had been upon them. His jailor, Dolohov, had released him into the fray, disorientated and wandless, like a lamb to the slaughter.

Thoros Nott had eyed them both warily and asked if he had been summoned.

"You won't find me babysitting when there is battle to be joined. And I have my eye on that tasty Mudblood of Potter's for a pet, I can't win rights to her from headquarters can I?" Dolohov, had replied in his husky tones that gave the reply a lewdness not conveyed by the words alone.

The first spark had been lit then, but had died quickly.

Lucius had wondered what was the point, no matter which side won he could be nothing but a loser under both camps. His Narcissa, his Draco, gone. What was the purpose of fighting even if he could?

Until he encountered that purpose in the a corridor not far from the main hall.

Greyback. Taunting him with the demise of his loved ones. Well he had showed him, he'd shown all of them.

Yes, on nights he could remember the tribute of violence he had perpetrated to avenge his loss, he could crack a satisfied—if vicious—smile and return to sleep.

But in the morning the grief would return, the milestone around his neck.

The worst nights of all were when he slept peacefully, dreamt peacefully.

They were becoming too frequent. He was losing that connection. It was agony, it was pain, remembering. But if he didn't remember them, who would?

The thought gives him comfort, as he pulls a robe over his black silk pyjamas, waves his wand toward the grate and then settles down in front of the fire with a bottle of fire-whisky.

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	2. Caustic Companionship

**A/N: Now don't go getting excited, daily updates are not sustainable, but I had another chapter written (and somewhat edited) so here it is.**

 **One the subject of editing, thanks to Dr Breifs Cat for running your eyes over this chapter, and vetoing my most stupid sentences. I could sure use another Beta if anyone is interested.**

 **I own nothing and make nothing. The only currency I accept is reviews, so don't be stingy with your thoughts.**

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"Leave me in peace! I do not know why you still bother."

"Because you used to be fun!"

"What, dark revel fun? Torturing and raping muggles fun?"

Severus growled. It was nice to know that his snarky friend was still under the lassez-faire attitude he had adopted.

"Before that! And I did not rape muggles. You did not rape muggles! And do you think I didn't know what a soft touch you were for torture. Ol' snakeface might have eaten up your monologuing, but I know a delaying tactic when I see one." Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "The war is over ten years over my friend, you need to get out of this mausoleum. We are heroes and with heroics comes a great deal of willing and enthusiastic pussy."

"The crimes can be forgotten but the heroism lives on? What a contradictory stance. Nevertheless, you were a double agent, risking your life for the greater good, I went along with his genocidal agenda, never questioning him until he threatened my family."

Snape grumbled, his brows coming down sharply. "Bullshit! You had reservations long before that. You fumbled more than one mission, fed that Lovegood chit and assisted…"

Severus did not wilt—altered as he was, he was still a wizard who would never wilt—but upon seeing Lucius hard expression, and the ominous twitch in his jaw, he changed tack.

"Lucius, not a week goes by that I am not asked about my dashing ex-death eater friend." Severus pauses and waggles his inky black eyebrows. "They have even suggested they'd love to play with us dark bastards in tandem!"

Malfoy could feel his face pull into a disgusted sneer.

Severus scoffs theatrically. "It is not like we have not done similar before. For Merlin's sake man! You show Narcissa infinitely more fidelity in death than you ever did in life."

Perhaps the man can wilt after all. Lucius observes his friend's shoulders collapse, Severus lifts a hand to rub over his mouth and offers up a weary sigh. "I should not have said that."

It is a rather fine admission. Severus has been appearing at his home bi-monthly for over a decade. The copulation agenda did not commence until four years ago but it has long become wearying.

But he means well, so rather than pressing his lips together in another show of disapproval he opens them. And allows a bit of the truth to slip out.

"You would never understand you half muggle fuck, but my whole life is about my legacy, the Malfoy legacy. I am the family and the family is me and I have failed. The line will end with me, with ignominy of my life; a mediocre soldier for a madman, and a last minute hero for none of the right reasons." His eyes narrow and his voice turns even colder. "I have failed... and dipping my wick in some random witch can in no way make up for that."

Severus looks more thoughtful than offended.

"It could," his dark friend says.

"MY SON IS DEAD!... Casual sex will not bring him back, nor Narcissa."

A small smile tickles Severus' features, it is infuriating, he is infuriating.

"It will not bring them back, granted, but if it is the line you are so worried about, what is to stop you from picking up a floozy 'dipping your wick' as you so elegantly put it and voila! You have a new heir, new lease on life and you may drop this hangdog routine…"

Lucius opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. His fingers grip his glass tightly and when he does find his voice, it is quite but still full to the brim with hostility. "Get out!"

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	3. Illumination and Rumination

**A/N: Hello lovely readers. Another chapter for your viewing pleasure.**

 **Once again, I'm looking for a beta (though Dr Breifs Cat gave me wonderful help with some tense issues, thanks!),** **I own nothing and I love reviews.** **Thanks to zeeksmon for the especially helpful review, I have begun to address this issue in this chapter and future chapters.**

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As angry as Lucius is at his oldest friend, he would be lying if he claimed that the idea had not tickled his mind in the weeks that followed.

But when he had mused, Lucius' thoughts traversed unexpected paths.

The idea of continuing the family line was abstract and explored in nothing more than moments.

Yes, it would be good to continue the family legacy. Yes, it would be fitting to have someone to pass on all this material wealth. But these detached intellectual concepts could not account for the very emotional response he had presented to Severus.

Considerably more time was spent ruminating on Draco's youth.

He took a tour of the nursery, the room seemed brighter, ghosts still lingered, but they were benign.

He had been such an adorable boy. The only viable child in half a dozen pregnancies, Draco had been treasured both for himself and as the attainment of a dream long desired.

Lucius remembered holding him to his naked chest, as that potty healer suggested, when Narcissa had been deemed too ill to nurse the baby until she had gotten some rest. His hand had cupped that translucent fuzz on the back of the boy's head and he had prayed to the gods that they would manage to keep this one.

The early years had been beautiful, but also marked by the increasing demands of the Dark Lord. The contrast between his congenial home life and his increasingly violent escapades had strained his ever tentative relationship with his wife.

Would that they had been able to have more children. Would it have given him the incentive to force his way out from the ranks of the Dark Lord sooner? Or would he have just lost more children to the madman's whim?

His home life could have quite naturally led to thoughts of the woman, indeed the word 'obsession' was insufficient to describe Lucius' decade long fixation on his departed wife. He had poured over the last days of her life and his imaginings of her brutal death nigh on hourly for so long. But strangely, for this brief interlude his miasma of spousal grief seemed… not entirely absent… but distant, as if immersed underwater. Still lurking just under the surface but not able to touch him, it engendered wariness at the same time if brought relief.

Sitting at his expansive desk pouring over the week's business he finds himself pushing aside his ledgers and dry correspondence to reach for a fresh sheet of parchment.

As the long absent sunlight streams over his back his quill moves across the page almost of his own volition…

 _Intelligent_

Yes, an intelligent wife. To produce intelligent children.

He taps his quill lightly on the edge of the ink pot. Intelligence for the sake of the family, but how many men became puppets for their pureblood wives? Great minds with no outlet other than manipulation could be dangerous.

A wince contorts his features as he thinks of Bellatrix again. She'd achieved the highest NEWT scores in three generations of Blacks and yet used her intellect for nothing but violence and mayhem.

 _Emotionally stable…. With own interests?... (Non-violent interests)_

Her place would be in the home until any offspring attained Hogwarts age, but past that point he could support the idea of a wife who wished to amuse herself with work. Feeling rather magnanimous Lucius nods to himself.

 _Youth… fertility?_

That is a thornier issue. How could he know if a woman is fertile? Or beyond that, capable of carrying a magical child to term? Short of marrying a widow with prior issue, he can only act on faith.

In a society that married for life, fecund pureblood widows had ever been rare and highly prized. Even if one were to be had, would she have him? Who would have him?

Outside his business concerns the only contact he has had with the outside world is Severus. The house arrest ended four years ago, but aside from a handful of visits to his solicitors, he has not troubled himself to re-integrate with the magical community of which he was once considered one of the leading lights.

There is money, still plenty of money, but the thought of a bride choosing him for that alone makes him uneasy.

Lucius suddenly drops the parchment like it is plagued by an Incendio curse. It sits on his desk, looking innocuous and incomplete, but it is undeniable the evidence of his resolve. His resolve to do this, choose a wife of his own and try to revive his life.

He rubs his hands over his face, disgusted when his fingers are met with a beard.

Tentatively Lucius reaches toward the parchment; very tentatively for a man grown, and veteran of two wars.

 _Fertility?_

He wonders if he even deserves a second chance. There is no denying that curse damage from dark magic can affect fertility. One look at the sparse offspring of the death eater ranks is more than convincing, when added to 500 years or literature on the subject it is incontrovertible.

But unlike witches, a wizard's potency can be tested to a degree.

Almost afraid to take action on this wild plan—only incepted a mere fortnight ago—Lucius quickly scribbles a note to his private healer. Activating the floo he tosses the note through with similar dispatch, his heart hammers wildly.

Mingled with his sadness—and fear—there is hope. And that is, perhaps, what frightens him the most.

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	4. Forward The Bill For Your Services

**Big thanks to Fragilereality for doing her beta magic on this chapter. JK Rowling owns everything your recognize. I bow to everyone who has left reviews so far and humbly request more.**

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The spidery thin wizard looks like some desiccated skeleton. His appearance is not the best recommendation for his services when considered in isolation. And yet the man recently celebrated his 187th birthday.

He coughs, coughs again, and again.

Lucius wants to shake him, but the only sign of agitation he allows is the slight lift of his chin. The rest of his body is arranged with a languidness he does not feel.

He ought to just say it. The healer has spent nearly three hours examining him in the most intimate fashion imaginable, he _can_ just say it. If he doesn't say it Lucius will hex him.

"I am sorry Lord Malfoy, it is as you feared, with the magical damage you have sustained you are not capable of procreating w…"

"Yes, thank you. Please forward the bill for your services, it will be taken care of promptly," he interrupts the healer. Lucius' words are polite but his tone is imperious.

Turning his face away, Lucius tries to banish the burning in his throat. It was just an idea, nothing more, he will endure for his allotted days, his house will not.

The weight of a newborn infant, the weight he has been picturing in his hands so fervently he can almost feel it... it disappears.

The tingling emptiness in his hands is like a ton of bricks on his heart. He blinks furiously, waiting to hear the floo activate and the man to get the fuck out of here.

He must be losing his touch if his subordinates do not recognise a dismissal when he issues it.

A pressure falls on his left forearm, the curling fingers of the healer almost touching the edge of the dark mark concealed by his jacket. Lucius hisses and seeks to shake the offending appendage off. But those painfully thin fingers are surprisingly strong.

His private pain forgotten in the face of this violation, Malfoy looks up at his healer. If his expression his half so furious as his inner landscape the man should shrink back in fear.

Instead he is met with a face that is calm, without a trace of fear— _disappointing_ —but it is also devoid of pity— _interesting_...

"Even as few as five years ago the most I could prescribe would have been some nutrition potions and a healthy dose of hope for a miracle. But since the wars treatment for this kind of malady has become available and is remarkably successful."

"So give me the potion you fool!" Lucius booms.

The man does not even flinch. He does shake his head before saying, "It is a specialist area, there are several clinics, but this is the best."

He pulls a self-inking quill out of his pocket to scribble the direction.

The healer pauses, eyeing Lucius speculatively. "It is the best clinic. With these things it is best to go to the source. But if you decide it is not suitable for _you,_ or _you_ are unable to secure an appointment I will owl a list of other facilities here and abroad."

Lucius scoffs. He might have trouble getting a wife suitable for the role of Lady Malfoy, but has no qualms about securing an appointment.

Before he can formulate a suitably scathing reply, the healer speaks again, "Wizards travel from all continents for treatment there, the clinic is world renowned… If you still maintain contact with Potions Master Snape he might be of assistance… he has the potions contract for Mistress…"

Lucius held up a hand commandingly. "I will consider it."

As he shuffles toward the fireplace the healer gives off reluctance in waves and likewise the way he purses his lips and minutely tosses his head suggests he had more to say.

But Lucius keeps his expression closed until the green flames die down.

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	5. Yellow & Fuchsia A Dastardly Combination

**I Present this humble offering right after reading that latest chapter of Fragilereality's** _ **Masterchef**_ **, if you have not checked it out yet, make sure you do it is amazing. Beta Love to Fragile Reality and Dr Breifs Cat (whose writing list abounds with quality** _ **Pride and Prejudice**_ **fics and some fresh** _ **Once Upon a Time**_ **tales).**

 **I make nothing, own nothing. There is literally a child climbing on my lap while I try to post this.**

 **The reviews you left for last chapter were fun, you will find more hints in the installment below. Review please.**

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The waiting room is nauseating. Sunshine yellow paper covers three of the four walls in a fussy motif. The last is taken up by a giant baby.

He assumes it is a photo, though it is completely stationary. The blue eyed infant on the cusp of toddlerhood is sickeningly perfect; he wants to tear it down.

Lucius approaches the counter. There is another patient there before him. The woman does not move aside, and neither does the welcome witch tell her to make way.

Instead the perky blonde tells him she will be with him in one moment.

He grips his cane tightly.

Striding away from the desk he looks to the far wall. His gaze falls upon an eclectic assortment of sofas, straight backed chairs and strange fabric sacks.

Crossing the room he nudges one with his toe. He curls his lip as it makes a rustling sound, before taking what he deems the only sensible chair, even if it is a shocking shade of fuchsia.

His eyes are continually drawn to the baby mural. Because it's an _eyesore_ … that's why.

The wide bottomed witch finally finishes her business. The welcome witch frowns when she sees him seated. Straight backed, legs crossed at the knee, his hands stacked atop of his cane, he tops off his pose with a haughty glare.

She wears no smile as she slides around the large counter. Her jaunty mint green clip board is enough to earn her another sneer. Her step falters. But she squares her shoulders holding out the jolly thing to him on approach.

"And what pray tell are these?"

"New clients are asked to fill out a patient history," she replies.

"And you didn't forward them to my healer because…?"

She purses her lips but also blushes. She is still holding the clipboard out; her arm has begun to tremble. "Healer Gr—"

He liberates the clipboard with a lightening quick grab, cutting her off. He holds it up like it is a spoiled flobberworm.

She takes a deep breath. "…prefers-that-patients-fill-out-the-paperwork-personally."

He smirks at her nervousness.

When he flicks one side of his coat open to access the inner pocket she flinches, it is all he can do not to chuckle out loud.

"It's policy for patients to use a clinic honesty quill."

He begins to fill out the first page solemnly with his own luxury self-inking quill. He keeps his head down. He does not hear her retreating footfalls until he reaches the third page.

The girl is making an inordinate amount of noise; flapping papers slamming some strange device on her desk. It looks muggle. The whole clinic has an alien feel to it.

He smirks when she huffs. Life's small pleasures, Severus is right—not that he'd ever tell him so—he really ought to get out more.

The uppity Witch stomps over. "This way please."

She leads him to a corridor to the left of the monstrous baby.

The walls are blissfully white; he stifles a small sigh of relief, but the sensation is fleeting. More photos of babies… this time moving in their lurid yellow frames… adorn the walls.

The initially sparse images seem to multiply as he gets further down the passageway. They look as if they are mocking him with their gummy grins and chubby fists.

They pause before a door and a shiver runs through his body. Time seems to slow. His eyes dilate, his breath catches.

He can neither see it nor touch it, but nevertheless the nexus of fate is palpable. He cannot bring his hand to grip the doorknob, the weight of predestination is heavy, he hopes for salvation but expects doom.

The witch grunts, reaching around him to push the door open.

The moment passes, but he is still of balance, she gestures to another bright seat (this one in turquoise). "You may wait here."

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 **Next week's post shall be about double the length of the preceding chapters, can anyone hazard a guess as to why?**


	6. That Unprofessional Granger Girl

**A/N: I am a very bad girl! These chapters were supposed to be no longer than 1000 words! I have gone over to the tune of 300 words. Oh well, I can only hope they are entertaining words.**

 **I want to thank Fragilereality and Dr Breifs Cat for helping me beta my messy draft. If there are any mistakes it is because I noodled after the fact. Beta love to one other - you know who you are.**

 **You know the drill, I don't own the HP universe or any of the characters you recognise and I make no money from this story. The only currency I accept is reviews, so don't be shy, share your feedback.**

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The wait is less than three minutes, but it is sufficient to bring him to the cusp of a snit. His eyes are drawn to a narrow glass door tucked in the far corner of the room. The handle turns.

The woman who steps through—the young woman… the exceedingly _young_ woman—looks vaguely familiar. Nevertheless he treats her to his trademark sneer.

It has never been more wasted.

She looks up from her clipboard and her lips form a soft smile, a smile that is mirrored by her whisky coloured eyes. He is momentarily stunned.

He could chalk it down to her attire.

For Merlin's sake the woman is wearing trousers! Tightly fitted trousers! He can see them through her open robe; the robe itself is modern in cut, but a preposterous shade of aqua blue. He will never admit that it suits her.

The blouse though... it is almost sheer silk, completely unprofessional and utterly tantalising! The slip underneath it preserves her modesty more than many a gown he's seen, but it is that allure of the unknown. It is a tease.

Or it could just be that he has gone too long without the tender touch of a woman.

She is saying something… a welcome speech, probably useless banalities. His breath stutters as the light catches the fabric, he can discern the rounded tops of her breasts, his cock twitches.

Lucius reaches for his guilt. His wife lies dead, while he ogles this woman… no girl! But he comes up with nothing. He is empty. He tries again.

Her brows pull together in a frown. "Stop that," she snaps, squinting at a point just over his head.

As she tilts her head to the side, the wild curls that form a dome around her head list also. Like a _Lumos_ spell his mind lights up and the guilt floods in, but from an unexpected quarter.

It is the Granger girl! Who was tortured in his home—tortured right before his very eyes—while he stood by and did nothing…

She drags a stool over and sits in front of him. Her knees almost touch his. Her body radiates a pleasing heat; her proximity is deliciously distracting, the lids of his eyes drop to half mast, but he still manages to say, "I demand to see someone else."

She ignores him for three heartbeats, the brazen little thing. Then she smiles at him, but it has a sharp edge to it. "Some things never change," she says, with a laugh.

It takes him a moment to determine her meaning, his hands clench, and he feels the blood rush to his face.

He blames the rage for the tirade that follows, a long and venom filled speech. He makes it clear that blood prejudice has naught to do with it, he is by far more offended by her youth, accompanying lack of experience and her utter lack of professionalism.

"Professionalism?" She queries.

He uses both hands and gestures to her clothing. She nods to herself as if his reaction—one he already regrets—is an item on some unseen checklist.

Her patient, and slightly amused, expression would set him off again were it not for the tell-tale spots of colour on her cheeks.

"In terms of experience, I challenge you to find someone more experienced in this healing protocol than I, as I was the one who pioneered it… despite my, how did you put it? _Appalling youthful naiveté_?"

Crossing her arms, she looks down at her clothing. When she meets his gaze again, she raises a brow in a manner that immediately puts him in mind of Severus, adding, "And one the perks of owning my own clinic, is that I can wear whatever the hell I want."

She waves her wand, drawing an examination table to the centre of the room. Her movements are confident and… elegant. Discarding her outer robe, she adjusts the height the muggle way.

By Circe, her arse is magnificent! He has a vivid image of bending her over that table, his fingers cruelly grasping her hips while he drives into her. Any irritation he might feel at her neat dismissal of his reservations is eclipsed by a panic, a panic that mounts apace with his arousal.

"Shall we?" she prompts.

Like a wizard climbing his own pyre, Lucius drags his feet toward the examination table, he desperately wills his erection to subside.

 _Let no man question my resolve to revive the family line_ , he thinks as he prepares himself for another phsyical, delivered by rectal examination. He can only hope the Miss Granger's wand is thinner than the knobbly monstrosity of his family healer. Such thoughts should extinguish his desire; no such luck.

She picks up the cloak he has just removed, turning away. He cannot help but wince as he attempts to expose his posterior, his offending appendage seems to catch on his trousers and undergarments.

 _Fuck_. His boxer briefs are too tight. To expose his buttocks he must lower them at the front also, and to do that he must similarly drop his trousers. _Fuck!_

The wince turns into an all out cringe as he hears her foot falls making their way back to him.

He's surprised he can even hear her, bent as he is over the table presenting his bare arse, and with his heart thundering in his ears.

The waiting is to his mind terrible. How long has he been there? Waiting? Three seconds, three minutes, thirty minutes? He is being ridiculous.

He dares to look at her and instantly his worst fears are confirmed. Her eyes are wide and her mouth also hangs open. She has obviously seen what he hoped the ends of his shirt and his partially prone position would hide.

His mortification reaches new heights when the corners of her lips turn up, she bites her lip; an effort to contain an unprofessional laugh he is sure.

Humiliated, his first instinct is to reach for anger, he will repay her scorn. He inflates his chest to expel a cutting remark, but is arrested by her eyes. Yes they are sparkling with her inappropriate mirth, but they are also kind.

"Mr Malfoy, do your trousers and undergarments have any enchantments woven into them?"

He shakes his head at the baffling question.

She taps her lips before turning her back to him, gifting blessed privacy.

"I find the Hecklemonk diagnostic technique to be both ineffective and… _unhygienic_ ," she says, still facing away. "I use a modified scanning charm with a visual matrix, you may be fully clothed during, with the exception of any enchanted garments; even mild stitch strengthening charms can sometimes interfere with the readings."

He nods even though he knows she cannot see him. Gingerly Lucius tucks himself back in and refastens his slacks. He also repositions his cock, hoping to make it less conspicuous. A fool's errand he thinks with exasperation and a pinch of masculine pride.

She asks if he is decent, he mumbles in the affirmative.

Her eyes widen as he begins to unbutton his shirt. She lifts her chin a touch, exposing the smooth column of her neck and she swallows noticeably. His masculine pride takes back more lost ground, preening like a cat stroked just the right way.

He is immediately grateful for the anti-crease spells the elves apply in lieu of starch. His bare chest provides a distraction, a redress of power, the energy of the room shifts almost indiscernibly.

But the girl—whatever her provenance—is no feather head. She squares her shoulders, and adds in a voice that is only a shade hoarse, "Touch can clarify the image... but your shoulder or wrist will be sufficient."

And then she smirks in an impish manner, her eyes dance and twinkle. "There will be no call for me to be sticking my wand up your arse."

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	7. A Galaxy, A Wandering Hand and Insults

**A/N: Yes it has been months from the last update! But what can I say? Family life is crazy at the moment. I have not abandoned it, so please tell me if you are still following and if you like it.**

 **Beta Love to Dr Breifs Cat. No money, not mine. Review, review, review.**

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A Malfoy must always be poised.

A Malfoy must always be confident.

A certain level of ennui is both natural and critical; the essence of a Malfoy is to be unflappable in the face of your inferiors, and when you are a Malfoy everyone is your inferior.

This is what Lucius had been taught from his very infancy, and the lesson had been re-enforced painfully on a few terribly memorable occasions.

So on instinct he remains remarkably still under Miss Granger's wand.

The wonder Lucius feels is similarly confined within; his expression remains neutral, even while she effortlessly conjures some of the most elegant magic he has ever seen.

The matrix is not limited to the boundaries of his body; its swell fills the whole room with glowing, flickering and twinkling lights.

Close examination reveals these lights to actually be tiny runes, glowing in various colours. They are clustered together in some areas, bursts creating an almost milky concentration of light in others. And lone runes flicker on the far edges, brushing against the wall.

To rotate a specific conglomeration she leans in to touch his arm. Lucius shivers as her index finger traces a line from the crease of his elbow to his wrist. She presses lightly, easily finding the thinner bones of his wrist and then she rhythmically strokes his pulse point. He cannot help but close his eyes.

He'd be a fool to read anything sexual in her touch. Peeking through his eyelashes he can see she is utterly absorbed, but only by the puzzle his body obviously presents rather than his body itself.

She walks around the table, her fingers trail across the front of his shoulder. Miss Granger frowns, he is watching her now with the same intensity she uses to scrutinise his runes.

Her lips make a perfect pout; he wants to kiss them, pry them open with his tongue and plunder her mouth.

She squints; it is a less pretty expression… too intense for her elfin features. Her fingers are instantly transported from his chest to his lower abdomen. She touches his naval; a completely unconscious touch. He watches her eyes narrow further and she shakes her head in frustration.

Those graceful fingers migrate to the edge of his abdominal muscles and lower too, halting a hair's breadth from the top of his trousers.

Oh Merlin, her thumb makes little circles, arousal flows in waves. He is drowning in desire but she is not aware, so focused is she on a burst of blue and purple runes.

She mutters, tilting her head to the left and then the right. Her fingers slide under the waistband of his pants. So close, so damn close. He can't help it, he gasps.

Miss Granger blinks. She looks down at her hand, her hand that is in a rather compromising position. Lucius can see the moment of comprehension. Her eyes go wide and her face red enough to make any Gryffindor proud. She snatches the hand back as if it's been burnt, even cradling it against her chest.

He chuckles. And the Granger girl surprises him once more. The laughter does not intensify her mortification nor does it force her into a defensive pique.

She instead smiles at him conspiratorially. "I apologise. When caught up in a puzzle I lose all sense of propriety," she says.

Taking up her clipboard once more she informs him he may get down and get dressed. He does just that as she putters around the room, making a note here and consulting a book there. Miss Granger's movements reek of avoidance; he retakes his former seat and prepares himself for her conclusion: that nothing can be done.

Sliding on that wheeled stool she looks sharply at him and proclaims, "It can be done."

"You wouldn't be using Legimancy on me would you Miss Granger?" he asks with a raised brow.

"No, just intuition."

"Which is usually code for Legimancy."

Her only reply to this is yet another of her smiles. Unable to leave it at that Lucius prods her mind with his own and finds the entry remarkably easy. No legimens would practice such poor occulmency and yet he does not withdraw.

On the contrary, he skims her thoughts from earlier. He fastens on to her sigh of appreciation when she takes the first sip of her morning tea and follows the trail of pleasure into her more guarded thoughts, searching for what makes her sigh when she is alone. The images soften and take on a sensual quality, he delves deeper until out of the dark flies a huge ball of fire.

He is thrown out of her mind with incredible force and he pops a stinging thumb in his mouth.

"Venture into my mind again, Mr Malfoy, and I will burn more than your thumb," she says, her tone lacks her earlier levity.

"Do you speak to all your patients thus?"

Her cheeky smile returns and there is a glint in her eye. "Only the special ones," she says. But as she begins to lay out her treatment schedule—which shall extend a twelve month or more and require weekly visits initially—his mind is fixated on her previous statement.

"Miss Granger," he interrupts. "Let me assure you the song and dance is not required. You say you can cure me then get on with it. You may name your price and I will pay it, regardless of whether there are three appointments or three dozen. I will compensate you for the results not by the hour, but I will be very put out if you wantonly waste my time due to your financial troubles."

She purses her lips and stares at him for a moment. Lucius can almost feel the temperature in the room drop. "Financial troubles?" she asks.

"Miss Granger—"

"Healer Granger," she corrects.

"Healer Granger then," Lucius says with a huff. "It could not escape my notice that your clinic is empty. Awaiting my appointment I saw one other soul who was not a member of your staff, and indeed only one lone staff member also. As a former death eater who was privy to the sheer volume of curse damage inflicted during the second wizarding war I know that even ten years on you should be up to your eyeballs in patients…"

Her face, nay her whole body has gone very still, suggesting he has hit his mark. "Actually," he adds, "Upon second thoughts I think I ought to take my business and money elsewhere."

He gets up to leave but she tells him to sit back down immediately and, to his great surprise, he listens.

She takes a deep breath. He looks to her eyes expecting to see them burning, or even brimming with that infernal amusement. But the girl's eyes are mostly cold.

When she speaks her voice is confident, prideful. She explains to him that her treatment methodology is licensed for use in upwards of fifty clinics throughout the magical world. She admits that while the clinic cannot begin to touch her royalties as a revenue stream, it is nevertheless booked out of the next 8 months solid.

Though her sense of dignity could rival any pureblood princess, her tone lacks the scathing quality they seem to be trained in from birth.

"I thought…" and here she falters. "In light of your history that some privacy would be in order… so I opened the clinic… you are aware that is Sunday?"

He feels foolish, what is it about this girl that discombobulates him so? He has lashed out at her due to his own ridiculous reaction to her touch, she has put him in his place, humbled him even.

"Why would you extend me such a courtesy? Why would you agree to see me at all?"

Her eyes are downcast, she is giving his query serious thought, more perhaps than he intended to provoke.

Her mien is entirely serious when she at length replies, "It was not an easy decision, it should have been, but the scars from the war… You did some terrible things Mr. Malfoy but you also paid a terrible price. In the weeks I thought about my course of action, I thought about Draco, Dumbledore was… Draco recognised me, that night at the manor—I am sure of it—Harry too, but he didn't rat us out. His face when Bellatrix…"

She trails off, rubbing at her sleeve. Her eyes have become glassy. "I fought for my place in this world, but you belong here too and if you want a second chance—a chance to do things better—I will help you."

Fighting a swelling in his chest Lucius replies without thought, "You said you have been thinking about this for weeks, I arranged this appointment but days ago."

She laughs, wiping her eyes in a unselfconscious manner. "Oh Mr. Malfoy, your friend prepared me for your visit some time ago."

Her smile is mischievous again when she adds "One should never try to out Slytherin the head of Slytherin."


	8. Surely A Pink Floo Must Be Fatal

**A/N: Let me go through the usual song and dance. I do not own the world or characters and make no money from this little bit of nonsense. No Copyright infringement is intended.**

 **This chapter has not seen the eye of a beta, so please be kind in your reviews. Oh, and leave reviews, I love them.**

Yelling at Severus through the floo is not satisfying. Even stepping through to better punctuate his tirade, leaves Lucius unsatisfied. His friend wears an indulgent expression, similar to that one might adopt while humouring a toddler throwing a fit. Hex or fist? Lucius wonders which would be most efficacious in wiping that smug look from Severus' face.

"And what did you make of Her _mi_ one?" Severus asks.

Lucius halts in his pacing, immediately not liking the familiar way the dark haired man speaks her name; emphasizing the 'my' in Hermione.

His eyes narrow. "I shall have ample time to form an opinion. The chit wishes to see me bi-weekly until Christmas, with treatments stretching out into the next twelve month."

"Yes… _Her_ _mi_ _one_ is nothing if not thorough."

Lucius twitches, Severus smiles.

"I do not appreciate you going behind my back, scheming with a m—"

Severus speaks across him "So you have said, repeatedly, I hardly—"

The floo roars to life, but it is a lurid pink with lavender high lights.

"What in Xerces name is wrong with your floo?"

Abandoning his languid pose Severus sits upright, eyes gleaming. The hair falls over his face in a manner that makes him appear suddenly rakish; quite a feat for a face that sports that monstrously hawkish nose.

Lucius regards the fire with scepticism, but Severus is suddenly up on his feet, liberating the half-drunk substandard glass of brandy from Lucius' grasp. Lucius shakes off his friends other hand; the spidery fingered hand that is is shoving him toward that malfunctioning floo.

"I am not going through that."

"It will work normally."

"I think not."

"Listen, you need to fuck off."

Lucius rears back at the vulgarity. Severus lips are pinched and there is a sense of urgency in his stance. A jiggling leg, a slightly raised left shoulder. Similarly when Severus speaks, his words carry a matching impetus, "Booty call."

"I beg your pardon?"

Severus sighs. "The fireplace is charmed, if a lady wishes to have relations… with my wonderful cock… at any hour of the day or night she may throw some prettily charmed powder to signal her… desire. And I have 5 minutes to accept or decline."

"Why would you decline?"

Severus grins wolfishly at the involuntary question. "I may already have company. Now unless your arse is willing to be said company, get it through the grate so I can answer in the affirmative."

A pinch to his left cheek (and not the one on his face) is all it takes to get Lucius moving.

* * *

Lucius looks down at his charcoal grey robes (recently purchased) with a moue of distaste. He ought to have worn the steel grey. The colour sets off his hair just so, though the cut of that set was a touch too radical for comfort.

He skips over the fact that he has changed four times before setting off for his appointment with Miss Granger.

"Kipper does not like this place, no she does not. Mudbloods summonings the master, what will be next?! Mistress would nev—"

"How dare you speak such filth in my presence! If I ever hear such from your mouth again I will chop out your tongue and make it into Bourguignon."

His hissed reprimand causes every head in the waiting room to snap his way. Including that of Miss Granger, standing framed in the hall. Lucius groans under his breath.

"I never knew you could cook," she says cheerfully, waving for him and his two diminutive companions to follow.

Upon arrival at her rooms she still does not address his transgression. She does not address him at all. Instead she completes some sort of ritual exchange or words with the elves. Kipper (heaven knows why the right of naming is one of the few freedoms elves insist upon) completes the phrases initiated by the perky healer, albeit sullenly. Coggy on the other hand is all smiles and deference.

"I am beginning to think my presence is entirely superfluous."

Miss Granger's eyes widen at his disgruntled tone. "Not at all, the elves would never have come without you."

She smiles at them, encouraging them to sit. Lucius sweeps his robes dramatically before taking the seat closest to the healer. She is wearing an almond colour today, it suits her. The blue green earrings and matching belt also favour her, show casing her tiny waist and elegant long neck. He swallows.

"I find myself surprised you know so much of the old ways, Draco amused us with tales of your misguided SPEW initiative."

The blush that stains her cheeks is delicious. "Elf welfare is still a cause that is dear to me heart, but I have fortunately taken the time to learn more of our magical brethren and thus discovered that my initial aims would have done them nothing but harm."

He nods at her admission, but feels compelled to ask, "If you are so committed to elf welfare I wonder at your willingness to assist me."

That sly smile again, at once both arousing and infuriating; she licks her lips and Lucius determines that the expression firmly falls on the arousing column.

Lucius shifts in his seat and Kipper gives him a look of accusatory horror.

Miss Granger is talking, "—those displaced following the war were not adverse to being placed in your household, on the contrary a number requested your patronage. I realise that Dobby was an aberration." Her expression falters for a moment. "I do not excuse your abuse of him, but I became familiar enough with him, and his well-meaning disasters, to realise what a frustrating servant he must have been. So brave at the end though…" she trails off, her eyes going slightly unfocused, Lucius feels a knawing sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Snapping from her revery, the girl speaks again, "I also made enquiries and found he was the only servant disciplined harshly, well beyond the self-flaggeration they all seem to be prone too. I also studied Flipsy's case, it was—"

"Yes. Quite."

If there is anything to take the lift out of a man's leviosa, it is the mention of the elf that had pinned away for its young master. His son's elf had gone mad following Draco's death. Insisting that his master lived and vowing that he would find his master, Flipsy had made wild proclamations daily for months, falling on deaf ears for the most part, until one morning the other elves woke to find him gone.

The girl has that omnipresent clipboard in her hands again, her fingers seem to move restlessly over the edges, catching the direction of his gaze she puts it down. Smiling at the elves she directs their attention to a vast array of bottles and begins to outline a complicated dosage schedule.

Coggy is leaning forward and nodding. Kipper has crossed her stick thin arms and her chin is set mulishly. Suddenly self-conscious Lucius uncrosses his own arms.

"Reproductive health requires holistic wellbeing. Increase vegetable intake in general, lightly steamed selections are best. Two vegetarian dinners per week." And then taking a deep breath and focusing her attention on Coggy—angling away from Lucius—she dares to say. "I would like to see your master reduce his alcohol intake, if he must drink wine with dinner, no more than two glasses. No heavy spirits."

"Kipper is telling master he should not drink so much, I is knowing it is not good for him and his wizard parts. I don'ts be needing some dirty mudblood telling me how to look after my master."

Although Lucius winces at the slur, Miss Granger appears unconcerned, though he did observe a twitch in the corner of her mouth at the cavalier mention of his 'wizard parts'.

"Kipper, I am a healer who can help your master to produce a new heir for your house. My blood status has no bearing on my expertise. Your master has seen fit to engage me you will either accept his endorsement or allow him to assign another elf to his primary care."

Being a mere spectator rather than on the receiving end of Miss Granger's stern manner is a novel experience, and an arousing one. In fact, Lucius is finding it increasingly difficult to deny that he finds nigh on everything Miss Granger does arousing.

His elves, one chastened and one charmed, disappear with a pop. He is dismissed with scarcely more fanfare. A Malfoy would never deign to beg for attention, but he does ask Miss Granger if an examination is in order.

"Nothing much will have changed at this point. Let's give the potions a few days to settle in and launch from there." She briefly grips the back of his arm as she speaks, he closes his eyes and steadfastly clings to the notion that of course nothing much has changed.


	9. All The Pretty Green Birds

**A/N: So another chapter, I hope you enjoy, if you do REVIEW!**

 **I own nothing and make nothing, no copyright infringement intended. This is just for fun, not profit.**

 **Thanks to Zeeksmom for being the amazing beta on this installment, however I did noodle post beta, so any mistakes you find are all my fault. Enjoy.**

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He pauses on the threshold of the ballroom. A sneer lifts the corner of his mouth.

Is it the dancers he so despises?

Each guest is turned out the height of elegance. As they spin to the impeccable music…the overall effect is stunning…

Experience tells him behind this elegant veneer there will be some degree of rot. Isn't there always? Though perhaps it should, it does not offend him especially.

No. The sneer is directed at himself. He owned this world, this shining world. And in his folly he not only squandered his position at the apex, but risked their entire way of life. For what he wonders.

The party is already well underway. He could slip away if he wished, none would be the wiser. He hates himself for even considering it. But after his crimes, after all this time, what will his reception be?

The thought of slinking home triggers an odd duality in his mild. He both yearns for the melancholy solitude and fears it.

There is also disgust, of course. He will not play the coward. He is a Malfoy. He ought to be above even thinking such thoughts.

He sets his shoulders back, he lifts his chin. Even if they spit on him, even if they drive him from this place, he will depart at a measured pace with his head held high.

Still, there is no call to be hasty. He steps into a small fold of shadow and continues to watch. He waits for the most opportune moment to make the leap from spectator to participant.

The couples swirl around the floor, their robes mingling as they waltz. Idly he observes that the men are almost uniformly attired in black. The accents are predominantly green, but some sport silver also; fewer display purple.

The women are less homogenous, and yet he does not think it evidence of freedom of expression, merely that there are more shades of green to choose from. He could count at least a dozen forest green gowns. Others wear chartreuse (even those it does not suit). The wiser ladies have chosen peacock. He notes the smattering of sage green and the few girls unfortunately attired in mint.

One dark-skinned girl stands out in her plum-purple ensemble.

He smiles to himself; what would Miss Granger make of all the pretty birds?

His impeccable teeth make an appearance as his grin widens.

"Sometimes a colour is just a colour, Mr Malfoy," is what she'd said during the course of his last treatment.

Miss Granger had transfigured a cushion into some form of chair for his comfort.

It was a very advanced piece of spell work given the disparity in mass. What was it she had called it? A barking lounge?

As if there were any comfort to be had while she been kneeling at his feet, massaging a sweet smelling unguent into his calves.

Merlin, she had been eye level with a part of his anatomy that was most anxious to make its presence known. Desperate for a distraction he had ribbed her on her choice in colour. He'd even accused her of trying to lull him with her choice of a distinctly Slytherin hue.

The throaty laugh she had issued had been at cross purposes with his initial aim. It had taken all the self-control he'd been able to muster not to groan when she had leaned even closer to massage the back of his knees.

The magic had trickled out of her fingers, caressing his own core, drawing it out and had repeatedly slid away, teasing, always teasing. The waves she had created in his aura; he had not been able to decide if he wished her to cease immediately or to never ever stop.

Looking up at him with a sly smile she'd said, "I have liked green all my life, long before I heard of Salazar Slytherin or even Hogwarts itself… sometimes a colour is just a colour, Mr Malfoy."

He wonders what she is doing this evening. Is she sitting beside the fire with some half blood –or gods preserve us—a muggle, cosy while he whispers sweet nothings in her ear.

Brushing off his recollections and ruminations, Lucuis takes a deep breath before striding out from his concealed vantage point.

His inner landscape might be grim but his exterior demeanour is a study in regal haughtiness.

The music stops and a chorus of gasps ensues. His steps echo through the formerly noisy room, until he stops halfway to the dais. He does not fidget while waiting for what was once his due.

His stomach may be fluttering, time may have slowed to a crawl in his mind, but he centres himself and waits as patiently as a statue.

There are whispers; he tunes them out. He can see fluttering in his peripheral vision. Feet patter along the floor hastily bringing the hostess to his vicinity. Lucius bows, ostentatiously kisses her hand and pays his compliments on the arrangements.

The social niceties complete he avails himself of the opportunity to scan the room, ready to quell any challenges, even if he owns they are justified.

Madam Fawley waves over a girl, strangely enough it is the exotic beauty in purple. And in the 30 or so seconds it takes to perform the introductions Lucius' standing is crystal clear.

He reads the room again in light of this new information. It is not disapproval in those eyes—especially those of the ladies of a certain age—but avarice. With corresponding flourish Lucius bows over Miss Shafiq's hand. He even goes so far as to bestow a lingering kiss, since she has been 'so anxious to make his acquaintance,' as per Madam Fawley's claims.

Miss Shafiq is warm in his arms as he leads her through a dance. Lucius feels no surprise upon learning she is Beauxbatons' alumna. She lacks subtlety.

He learns she graduated five years ago and is most anxious, awfully anxious, excited and terribly anxious to begin the next phase of her life. Lucius does not roll his eyes, though it is a near thing.

And what is this 'next phase of her life'? She certainly has no ambition to cure dragon pox or create a philsopher's stone. She confesses she's no academic but is a most accomplished at acting as hostess. She adores children though and anxious to have some of her own. Her sister already has two and she is determined to have three.

She leans close and seems to breathe in his scent. What an odd duck this child is. Not lacking in beauty she nevertheless appears lacking in everything else. The song takes an age to end and Lucuis has long since tuned out her grating prattle.

Regardless of the fact that she holds no appeal for him, he bids her farewell with all due gallantry. She is, after all, sacred 28, and her family was one of the few to stay neutral through both wars. He can ill afford to give offence.

A predatory gleam lights his eye. He might have had more respect for them if they had spit on him. They have all migrated to his side of the floor, all those women of a certain age with conspicuously bare fingers. They feign casualness, chatting, sipping champagne but they are watching him out of the corner of sharp eyes.

Lucius is complacent on a lesser being the feeling might be called smug. He allows Madam Fowley to select the remainder of his partners for the evening. Why not let her have this small triumph?

For Lucuis Malfoy knows that the battle is won. He need only select his prize.

They may be more subtle than Miss Shafiq, but there is no denying that they chase him, these pureblood princesses. And even better… their parents' attempts contrived disinterest is just as transparent; he will appear as a beggar before no-ones door.

He gazes down into the face of his current partner. A distant relation of the McNairs, she also has ties to the Goyles; not that it shows. Clear green eyes. Perhaps it is an omen. He smiles wide enough to show his eye teeth and pulls her slim body a fraction closer. "Tell me dear, what do you do for fun?"

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 **Reviews wanted, enquire within.**


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